It is a thirst for death that drives him to bite his own tongue until it bleeds. The lightest drip of blood paints his lips red. She tilts her neck to him and Draco’s stomach ties itself in a million knots. That throat speaks of more violence than the demon has ever known.
The blood that pulses in her jugular is intoxicating. Draco wonders how red it must run.
So intoxicated is he that he forgets entirely that he can dive into Gospel’s mind. It’s only when her slow, vicious grin injects adrenaline through his veins that he hears what she is thinking. He hears it so loudly and vibrantly, like crimson red sentences spelled out right before his eyes. I want those fangs, he thinks, and he is affirmed by how she wants to use them.
The pair spin around each other, planets without a sun desperate to find their orbit.
Draco draws closer, just close enough to hover his mouth over where her blood rushes in her neck. His head grows foggy with her scent and the way he can imagine how her skin will feel between his teeth. The scales on Gospel’s neck taste like salt and desire when he finally does wrap his mouth around her skin. For a moment, he is confused, wondering how in a few moments he got here, lipping at a stranger’s skin.
But it is that kindred spirit, he knows, the one his father used to speak of. How when equal vices and virtues find each other, they collide and writhe and sizzle with friction. Draco simply melts into that lesson, into the way Gospel is so quick to invite him in.
“Bite me,” Draco demands, because he is so desperate to feel the violence he inflicts on others. Because her fangs are the only weapons he has wanted inflicted on himself.
